


He was Weak and I was Strong - Then

by Somedeepmystery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Gaby, Blood, F/M, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, dire hopeless situations, selfless but proud illya, there is the insinuation of an established relationship, you die i die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 04:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14804198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/pseuds/Somedeepmystery
Summary: Gaby and a critically wounded Illya prepare to make a last stand.





	He was Weak and I was Strong - Then

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Turningleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turningleaf/gifts).



> Another Dickinson title inspired bit.

Gaby sweated beneath Illya’s weight as she dragged him across the uneven ground, her hands hooked beneath his shoulders. She grunted with the effort, and he tried to use his feet to help her, push himself along, but he was too weak and his heels only scrabbled uselessly in the gravel beneath them.

She pulled him into the little shed with one final, heaving effort, laying him down on the rotting planks with as much care as she could manage. He winced, then coughed, blood flecking his lower lip, and Gaby quailed internally at the sight. Turning away, she hurried outside to try and obscure the path she’d left behind, knowing it was no use. They would follow it straight to them.

Coming back in, she closed the thick, wooden door and barred it shut, then looked back to the man on the floor, her partner, her friend,  _ her love. _ She fell to her knees beside him and tore open his shirt, using the already supplied bullet hole as her opening. She smoothed away the blood with her hand and watched as he tried to take a breath, heard the air suck in through the wound. 

Her eyes flew up to his, which were panicked but locked on her.

“I’ve got it,” she said sharply. “You’re going to be  _ fine _ .”

He was in no position to argue with her, and she didn’t wait around for him to try. She wrenched the pack off her back and rifled through it, looking for anything at all she could use to help him.

Her agile hands quickly unfolded an emergency blanket. Using Illya’s large knife, she cut off the corner, then pressed it against the hole in his ribs, sealing it, before grabbing up the duct tape with her other hand. Illya dragged in a ragged breath, and she felt her own chest ease slightly. She used some neglected rags to wipe his skin dry around the edges of the makeshift patch, and then taped them down, laying strip after strip of the adhesive backed fabric until she felt it was secure. 

Illya’s hand closed over hers, and she glanced back up at him. His hair was plastered to his head, and there was mud splattered over his brow to go with the blood on his chin. His eyes had never looked so blue. 

“Leave,” he rasped. “Leave me.” It was an attempt at an order. It angered her and she snatched her arm from his hold. It was far too easily done, his fingers unable to grasp her with any strength. 

“You get that idea out of your head right now,” she hissed. “I’m not leaving you. I’m not going  _ anywhere. _ ”

He flexed his jaw, but it wasn’t in anger, and took another slow, uneven breath. How long, she wondered? How long until the blood filling his chest put enough pressure on his lungs to stop his breathing again?

Yanking out her pistols, she set them on the ground, checking each clip and finding them empty. She cursed and started searching her gear for more ammunition.

“Gaby,” he called, voice hoarse, weak. She ignored him. 

Finding her pockets empty, she growled and threw one Walther PK across the room, then moved forward, pulling Illya’s pistols from their holsters. He tried to push her hands away, but she took advantage of his weakness. 

“ _ Gavrushka _ ,” he said again, and at the sound of the nickname she stopped with her hand around the Makarov’s  grip . “ _ Please. _ ” His deep voice shook. She looked up at him again, taking in his face, finding horror and sadness there. “Please go.” He closed his eyes, and a tear leaked out, gutting her. “I need you to–”

“To what?” she cut him off with a harsh cry. “Live?”

He nodded. 

“You want me to leave you here to  _ die _ ,” she demanded, her words as cutting as her voice was brittle. “So that you can die in peace knowing that I might make it?”

He didn’t nod this time, only looked back at her, eyes weary, drained. 

“ _ Fuck you! _ ” She pulled the clip from the first Makarov and found it full. Eight shots. She set it aside and pulled the other one. It was empty, so she started searching his gear for an extra clip.

“ _ моя любовь, пожалуйста,” _ he tried again, but she went on searching, finding an extra clip in his chest pouch. She slammed it into place and set the guns side by side within easy reach. 

“They will probably be here soon,” she said, leaning up to covertly look out the small, broken window. “But maybe Solo will beat them.”

“ _ Gaby _ ...” his voice was already weaker. 

She turned back and crawled over to him, leaning over him with her weight on her hands. “You listen here, Illya Kuryakin. I am not going to give you the peace you are asking for,” she said, her attempt at a firm voice lost to the way it broke on the last word. “Because then you will die, and what peace will there be left for me?” 

He drew in a breath. “Life–”

“Life without you is not a life I want!” she shouted. “I love you, you stupid,  _ stupid _ man!” She dragged in a shaking breath, then cupped his cheek. “ _ Bis der Tod uns scheidet, mein Schatz. _ And you are not dead yet.” She kissed him then, tasting his blood on her tongue. Once, twice, and a third, infinitely softer. “I love you.”

Illya grabbed her wrist where her hand still held his cheek. “There are too many of them.”

“Fifteen at last count,” she said quietly, a faux calm settling into place. “I’ve got sixteen bullets.”

Illya looked at her, his mouth set in a grim line, an achingly tender look passing over his eyes as he took in her face. “Promise me,” he said, some of his usual firmness surfacing, and she tensed, waiting for more of his nonsense, but it was for nothing. His words seeped into her skin like his kisses often did, with love and pride. 

“Promise me  _ you won’t miss. _ ”


End file.
